


ICARUS

by silverstardust



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Bird Hybrid Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Canonical Character Death, Cigarettes, Daddy Issues, Dawn of 16th, Dynamite, Dysfunctional Family, Explosions, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Immortal Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insane Wilbur Soot, Inspired by The Fall of Icarus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), L'Manberg | L'Manburg on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Mental Instability, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sad Wilbur Soot, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Smoking, Unstable Wilbur Soot, Vilbur My Beloved, Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur is to Icarus as Tommy is to Theseus, not the sexy kind, the trauma kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29880516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverstardust/pseuds/silverstardust
Summary: "Will. What are you doing."-Here is what they don't tell you- Icarus laughed, as he fell.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	ICARUS

**Author's Note:**

> Icarus Laughed As He Fell, by wearealsoboats  
> https://wearealsoboats.tumblr.com/

_Here is what they don’t tell you- Icarus laughed, as he fell._

  


The cave, a hidden crevice in the stone wall, is cool despite the sweltering summer heat. The whispery cool breeze, coming from much deeper in the ground, is a merciful blessing against the perspiration on his skin. Despite knowing, deeply, what he is about to do, despite the burning of anger, the red in his vision, the fuzzy velvet of the blanket of creeping insanity that has draped over him, all of it leading up to this, Wilbur is calm. He’s calmer than he’s ever been in his life, the kind of calm that settles deep, deep into your bones, like lying awake in the middle of the night, wrapped in the quiet darkness, just before the first breaking streaks of dawn’s sunlight, just teetering on the edge of consciousness and unconsciousness. Breathless, weightless, an out of body experience.

  


_Threw his head back and yelled into the winds, arms spread wide, teeth bared to the world._

  


Signs decorated the walls of his bunker- his final control room- the wood rough, splinters still embedded in the calluses of his fingers and under his nails, the result of hasty, uncaring carving. Deep black ink is splattered on all of them- some bone dry, some still fresh, still drying, but all covered in the ramblings and musings of a mad man.

Wilbur doesn’t fool himself. He knows that’s what he is.

  


_(There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring.)_

  


L’manberg, Essempie, what’s the difference anymore? Wilbur would rather die than ever be a part of Dream’s Essempie, but this is not the L’manberg he knows, not the L’manberg he built, created from late night dreams and whispers of revolution between sips of burning rum in low candlelight. Not the L’manberg he fought tooth and nail for, was willing to die and sacrifice everything for.

What remains, then? Pogtopia? No, Wilbur thinks not. Could barely even be called a town- an operations base, maybe, deep within a ravine, pitch black except for man made torches, so deep down that not even the sunlight can breach it, Too full of delusions, tempting and seductive whispers, the creeping edge of the loneliness and desperation of exile, creeping from every damned corner. Wilbur is no fool. He knows the second this is all over, Pogtopia will be laid to rest. Abandoned, left to waste away, just another footnote in history books to be glossed over.

  


_The wax scorched his skin, ran blazing trails down his back, his thighs, his ankles, his feet. Feathers floated like prayers past his fingers, close enough to snatch back._

  


Wilbur hummed softly under his breath, the anthem of L’manberg as familiar to him as the backs of his hands, as intimate as the perverted prayer of an old lighter sparking and igniting, burning the end of a cigarette he holds between his lips. There’s no real need for a smoke, already weightless with calm, with acceptance, but he has always savored the taste of ash burning on his tongue.

He tucked the lighter away, breathing the smoke in deeply, and stretched his arm out, the tips of his fingers caressing the cool stone of the button nestled within the wall.

Hours of preparation, just for this. Hundreds more put into L’manberg, his L’manberg-

No, not anymore.

Whatever he built, whatever his L’manberg stood for. It’s gone. It’s all gone.

“Will. What are you doing.”

  


_Death breathed burning kisses against his shoulders where the wings joined the harness._

  


“Phil,” Wilbur greeted, pulling his hand away from the button. “How lovely of you to join me.”

Phil stood at the entrance of the bunkers, wings still out and twitching, shoulders heaving, like the man had flown all the way here from the arctic tundra he now called home.

“Will.”

“Do you like it?” Wilbur interrupted, “My final control room. Built it all myself. Reinforcing it was a bitch.”

“Reinforcing-” Phil grimaced, and the hand at his side, that gripped his sword, tightened around the handle, the ancient blade forged of pure netherite gleaming with countless enchantments. “Will, what have you done.”

Wilbur scoffed, turning his head to take another drag from his cigarette and to breathe out the smoke, the wispy tendrils curling around his head before dissipating into the air. “Nothing. Nothing yet. Not that you would know, of course. How’s Techno? Doing well, I imagine.”

“Step away from the button, Will. Whatever your plan is, this isn’t worth it.” Phil took a step forward, into the bunker, but Wilbur held his ground.

“Is anything worth it in the end? When you live as long as someone like you does, of course,” Wilbur questioned. “You’ve seen empires rise and fall, seen countries built from nothing and torn apart from those around them. How much do you truly remember? Tell me, Phil, will you remember L’manberg long after it falls? Will you remember your son?”

“Will,” Phil warned, taking another step forward. Will remained undeterred.

“Once, a part of L’manberg, y’know, a traitor- I don’t know if you’ve heard of him, Eret?” Wilbur giggled, and Phil eyed him distrustfully. “He had a saying, Phil.”

“Will-!”

Wilbur smiled, and took a step back, fingers resting against the button.

“It was never meant to be.”

 _“NO!”_ Phil leapt forward, dropping his sword and tackling him, but it only forced his hand into the button harder.

  


_The sun painted everything in shades of gold._

  


The both of them were flung forward with the force of the explosion, thrown like ragdolls, any noise drowned out by the painful, high pitched ringing that filled his ears. A burning red heat seared into his limbs as Wilbur curled into a ball as best as he could, in beautiful agony, his back and head alight with a pain he knew too well, as the bunker shuddered and groaned around them.

Too close to a firework.

Tons and tons of dynamite, layered with a hate-filled love, deep under L’manberg. Nothing would be left. A perfect unfinished symphony. His unfinished symphony. Forever unfinished.

“Oh gods,” Phil moaned. “What have you done. Will, what have you done.”

Wilbur laughed. And he laughed, and he laughed. He pushed himself up from the ground, ignoring the glorious screaming pain in his arms and shoulders as he did so, ignoring the fiery burning of his chest and lungs, something undoubtedly broken, as he laughed.

“Kill me, Phil.”

Phil looked at him in horror.

Wilbur wasn’t laughing anymore. He gasped for air, shuddering with the force of his sobs, molten tears streaming down his face as he let his arms give out, collapsing back against the stone floor. “Kill me.”

Phil knelt next to him, running his hand through Wilbur’s hair.

“Kill me,” Wilbur begged, and he felt like a child again- ten years old, the oldest of them, snot-nosed and sniffling because daddy was too busy with the other boys to have time for him. “Phil. Kill me. Phil- Philza- Killza. Killza!” He forced a laugh, shuddering and curling his fists into the robes that Phil wore. “Please, kill me, Phil.”

“I can’t. You’re- you’re my son!”But despite the volume, despite the strength of his raised voice, the hand in his hair stayed gentle. Where was that hand when he’d been a child and needed his father? Is this what he was doomed to be? A thirty year old lunatic of a man, an arsonist, a terrorist, acting out and committing worse and worse sins because he was desperate for the attention and love of his father?

“Phil- look- how, how many hours? How many hours went into this? And it’s all gone.” Wilbur let his head be picked up, be cradled, and set into Phil’s lap. Craved the touch and the attention, not once letting go of his desperate grasp on Phil’s robes. “They’d all want you to do it.”

Phil didn’t say anything this time.

“Please,” Wilbur begged. “Papa- papa, kill me.”

Thick tears rolled down Phil’s face. But he wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, pressing a soft, tender kiss to Wilbur’s forehead as he gently laid him back down on the ground. And then he stood, wings stretched out, and the Angel of Death raised his sword.

  


_(There is a certain beauty in setting the world on fire and watching from the center of the flames.)_


End file.
